free man
by lozzy-beth
Summary: life in the eyes of Thomas, one shot to beat hollyday bordom
1. inocent youth

**An / disclaimer, I don't own anything. Got bored, it's the holydays, one shot.**

They sat there together, father and son, on the old worn out armchair watching out of the window. It was raining pretty heavily and the dank grey street looked even gloomier than usual.

The old man, who was in fact not that old but appeared to be as his black hair was almost completely silver now, started to show worry lines in his already furrowed brow. "I hope he's alrigh' " he said, trying to hide the concern in his voice from the young child on his knee. The boy fidgeted.

"Does it rain like this in Australia dad?" he asked.

At this a smile glistened in the man's eyes, set deep behind darkened bags, and the corners of his mouth twitched. "Quite a bit in some places, but in others it almost never rains, its really dry like dessert and barley anything grows there. That's not where we're goin' though… One day, when your mum gets better and we save up enough pennies, we'll live in Sidney, by the sea, there'll be lots of boats and anima…" He was stopped mid sentence by the sound of the creaky gate at the bottom of their very short foot path leading to the front door.

"Go up and tell your mother he's here will you Tommy", the five year old bounded up the stairs in such a way that it felt like the whole rickety house would fall down, not that he noticed, but his farther cringed before assembling himself to answer the door.

"Agh … doctor, we were beginning to think you weren't coming, come in quick before you catch somethin'" he beckoned the doctor in. Dr Clarkson opened his mouth to explain that you didn't in fact catch a cold by cold weather, it's just being cold can lower your immune system, and you're more likely to catch one. But he decided against it as he was here as a matter of good will and simply said his apologies for being late and thanked him for letting him in. _Which was stupid _he thought _or how else am I supposed to treat Mrs Franklin_, though he always tried to have impeccable manners, even if they were pointless.

He made his way upstairs and through to the bedroom of Mr and Mrs Franklin. There lay a rather pale deflated looking Mrs Franklin with a weak smile on her face and a content looking child perched on the end of the bed.

"How are you feeling Mrs Franklin?" he inquired, mustering up the softest tone possible, which he reserved for is worse off patients.

"Not but better I'm afraid doc" she said this with the smile still on her face, which for a second bemused the doctor. "But not any worse" she hastily added, seeing the brief bemusement on his face. He then realised that the child was still sat at the foot of the bed. It amazed him how resilient both of the Franklin's could be for the sake of their son.

The young boy then stretched out up the bed a bit more, obviously vying for the man's attention.

"And how are you young Thomas?" he asked the child, who now returned to his original position, watching the doctor start to examine his mother with a stethoscope. "Good, but my heart feels funny" he said lifting up his shirt to show a pasty white chest with slightly protruding ribs, expecting the doctor to see something wrong with his heart. "Well I'll have a look at that, won't I?" he said "but we need to sort mummy out first don't we?"

He would not normally tolerate people wasting his professional time, but he made the exception in this case, he supposed it was easier for the child to see that what was happening to his mother was not scary. He did all the routine question and checks and deduced that Mrs Franklin wasn't getting better, though he didn't say it in front of the child, he planned to corner Mr Franklin on his way out and give him the news. That was the worst part of his job. Seeing families like the Franklins, so close and loving, ripped apart and not being able to help.

Dr John Clarkson then walked the length of the bed and the young boy, the spitting image of his father Edward before the stress of his wife's illness, lay down with his top raised. He wriggled in excitement. The doctor laid a hand on his chest to try and make him more still. This didn't work, as the boy always felt a slight tingling sensation whenever the doctor touched him. He put the stethoscope to a now giggling chest. "I think your right young Thomas, that does sound bad, I'm afraid there's only one cure…" the boys eyes widened as the doctor reached into the bag, he loved to play patient to dr Clarkson, but he hated medicine. "Take one at least every week he said smiling as he pulled out a sweet, which he kept a few of in his surgery for the children. The boy ran up to him, instantly feeling 'better' and gave him a hug of thanks. He stood there stiffly; he barley ever hugged his own son. "Oh, you are good to us doc, thank you ever so much" Mrs Franklin managed before another coughing fit.


	2. typical day

**Chapter 2**

_One day, when your mum gets better and we save up enough pennies, we'll live in Sidney, by the sea, there'll be lots of boats and…_

Bolocks, mum didn't get better, there was no way on earth they could ever save enough 'pennies' and they didn't move to Sidney.

It was the 8th September 1911 and a older and more cynical Thomas stood in the kitchen of Downton Abbey, polishing a gold plate. Anna had come downstairs with her ladyship's tea tray and news of overhearing a conversation about a trip to the seaside for a few days. This caused great excitement in the kitchen as it meant a few servants would get to go with the family to a house belonging to a relative of the Grantham's, and the rest would have the days off.

However, Thomas was not excited, if it wasn't bad enough that it would have been his father's birthday (had he not died four years previously) but it was also likely that he would have to spend it at the beach. And all that did was bring back bad memories. Memorise of his old home in Manchester, where they decided to move from when his mother had first become ill. Of how his dad told him of the vast luscious fields of Yorkshire, which they move no were near, and how much better it would make his mum feel.

He scolded himself for believing such fairy tales, even at that age. He scolded himself to think he believed she would get better, his father could actually get a job (he was a clockmaker by trade but there was no work for him there so out of desperation he went into service half time as a butler to an elderly woman. He then got two other part time jobs, and it still wasn't enough to cover the medicine costs, the doctor was kind enough to visit for free; but by the time Edward Franklin had practically worked himself to death, they were still in major debt.

These thoughts brought a tear to his eye. He didn't like it, how can he be so weak? He was so angry at himself that he decided to put the plate back in such an _awkward _position that it was bound to fall out all over the floor when Daisy next opened the cupboard, knocking all he other plates with it, and scurried off to his room upstairs to hate himself in peace.


End file.
